


The Floral Tribute.

by springburn



Series: The Thick of It mini-fics [2]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feelings, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Some Explicit Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7806073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springburn/pseuds/springburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm has passed the shop many times, one day he goes in.......</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Floral Tribute.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt sent to me by @flydye88 on tumblr. Thank you!! Something a little different and a bit of a challenge.....
> 
> Person A owns a flower shop and person B comes storming in one day, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says “How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you in flower?”
> 
>  
> 
> So, this is what I've come with. Hope you like it.
> 
> It fits into the post Kelly au before Malcolm and Sam were an item.

THE FLORAL TRIBUTE. 

Malcolm often passed the little florists. 

It was an odd place. A throwback to a bygone age. 

Like something out of Dickens. The Old Curiosity Shop. 

A dark wooden exterior, with lattice windows. Bow fronted. The door half glazed, half not. 

Over the lintel hung a hand painted sign, suspended from a cast iron bracket. 

_'Sweet Williams.'_

It swung in the breeze, with a slight squeak. Rusty. Needed oiling. 

He'd never been in. Didn't really have any call to. But somehow the place always caught his attention. 

Sometimes when he hurried by, a scalding hot coffee in his hand, she'd be just opening up the shutter. 

She, being the woman he assumed was the proprietress. 

Slim and dark, tallish, attractive, a kind of wistful quality about her. 

Odd that he even noticed or committed her to memory. He who had so much on his mind at any given time. 

As he rushed passed, his thoughts bent only on the important matters of the day ahead, out she would come, wearing a pinny, carrying buckets laden with blooms. They would be artfully arranged on the pavement, some on crates, or upturned pots. Beside the doorway, and under the window sill. 

Bunches ready made up, or just individual flowers. Scented stocks, tall gladioli, enormous sunflowers. Gypsophila, laurel and ferns, for aesthetic greenery, or tightly budded roses.  
Pretty containers in the guise of wheelbarrows or watering cans, and pots filled with bulbs, in season. Tulips and daffs, crocuses and snowdrops. 

All noticed in the few seconds it took him to pass by. 

A slight smile, and a nod between them sometimes. 

That was it. 

Until that day. The day. When everything changed. 

oOo

The man blew in like a hurricane. 

In a flurry. Tie flapping. Shirt bulging around his middle slightly and coming untucked. Smart grey suit. His belt with an extra hole pushed through it, in an effort to hold up the trousers that were a little too big for him. 

Why the hell did she focus on that? 

He looked cross. 

He often did, she thought. 

She'd seen him before, many times, always walking briskly, always very early.  
Sometimes with a sheaf of papers under one arm, or a phone clamped to the side of his head, a cardboard Costa cup in his hand.  
Blinkered, fixed on his trajectory, seldom looking anywhere other than straight ahead. 

Except he nodded to her occasionally. 

He was tall. Naught but skin and bone. Closely cropped grey hair. He permanently looked as if he could do with a holiday.  
Forever tense about the jaw, a sort of pinched or pained expression.  
Rather weary of the world somehow. 

Today however, he marched straight in, slapped an Amex card down on the counter with a flourish and barked, in a broad Glaswegian burr, 

"How do I passive-aggressively say 'fuck you' in a flower?" 

oOo

Opening the door to the little shop forcefully, a brass bell which hung over it on a sprung curve of metal, tinkled to announce his arrival. 

Who even had a bell like that anymore? And how annoying was that fucking tinny little jingling sound? 

At his somewhat brusque opening gambit, she regarded him quizzically with an air of vague amusement. Her eyebrows knitted into a frown, both at his language and his truculent manner. 

"Sorry!" He seemed to diminish, losing a couple of inches in height, a slump of the shoulders, a puff of air through the mouth. 

"Didn't mean that to come out quite so offensively. It's not you I'm pissed with, just the recipient!" 

The smile she gave him was quite disarming. Immediately he felt more guilty than ever. 

"Sorry!" He reiterated. "Bin a bit of a shit week." 

"If you'll wait a second Sir, I'll fetch my book." She replied, and disappeared through a beaded curtain into the back. 

Malcolm waited, glancing around him. His eyes roving the room in a circuit.  
Missing nothing.  
He was chiefly struck by the pungent scent, a heady mix of all the various flowers.  
Pink lilies, with their bright orange pollen, the strange centre stamen that oozed a sticky sweetness that reminded him of Day of the Triffids somehow.  
Beautiful deep red roses, perfect buds, wrapped in paper decorated with little hearts.

He grimaced slightly at the sight of them. Romantic shite! Happy fucking Valentine's Day! 

There were multicoloured freesias in slender vases. Large peonies in pastel colours. Garish geraniums in terracotta pots.  
Reels of ribbon fixed to the side of the counter, and paper of all colours, raffia and green flower arranger's tape.  
Shelves behind contained spongy oasis, bows and beads, small ornaments and cellophane, and a rack of small gift cards, plain or annotated, for that personal message. 

He could see some wreaths and bouquets in various stages of completion, each one a living masterpiece. Artistic and creative. Impressive. 

Reaching the counter again, his eyes focused on the blank invoices lying there. He read the note headings upside down. A useful talent. 

_'Sweet Williams Florist. Owner. Kirsten Williams.'_  
_'Flowers for all Occasions, made to order.'_

As he mused for those few seconds, lost in thought, she returned, laying a large hardback on the counter. 

_'The Language of Flowers.'_

"This should give us the answer." She looked up at him, with her startling hazel eyes. "It's my Bible. It's surprising what you can say in a floral tribute! In Victorian times it was all the rage!" 

Flicking the pages rapidly, stopping every so often to peruse more carefully, she then swivelled the book to face him, indicating with her index finger. 

"I'm assuming this is to a lady?" She enquired, tentatively. 

"I wouldn't go quite that fucking far!" He retorted shortly. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, bringing out a pair of rounded tortoiseshell specs and placing them on his nose, before bending slightly to look at the place she marked for him. 

"I meant as opposed to a guy, rather than the moral reputation!" She choked, trying to suppress a giggle. 

He gave her a withering look. Her comment pointedly not warranting a response. 

"Orange lilies.......hatred!" He read aloud. "Pretty much sums it up.....what else?" 

"Well, there's yellow carnations, which say 'you've disappointed me'. They would go quite well with the orange." 

"Ha!" He laughed suddenly, with great bitterness. "Well, that's a fucking understatement! And she'd know these would she? Know the significance I mean......she's quite into flowers and shite." 

"Oh, I should think so. There are others too, quite well known. I'm certain she'd get the message with those......." 

A look of almost boyish gleefulness crossed his face. 

"Oh yeah? Like what?" 

"Meadowsweet, for uselessness. Geraniums signify stupidity, and of course, my favourite, the foxglove, which represents insincerity. Need I go on.....?" 

"Nope! That's a bunch, right there! Don't give a toss how much it comes to. Stick 'em all in. That'll be a great big bouquet of loathing.....just hope she gets the message!" 

"I have no doubt she will!" Taking a pad and pen, she began jotting down notes. "She must have really hurt you.....this person." She remarked, not looking up. 

He looked thoughtful for a second.

"My own fault for being a gullible prick." He replied eventually with a noncommittal shrug. "You'd think I'd learn! But no, apparently not! Never mind! Won't fucking happen again!" 

Her look was one of pity, but he stared her down defiantly. 

"I'm sorry to hear that. My mother used to say, 'there's someone out there for everyone'. Mind you, if that's true, mine has certainly well and truly eluded me thus far!" 

She turned the pad to face Malcolm, and found a pair of startlingly blue eyes regarding her dolefully.  
So intent was the gaze that he hadn't even noticed she was holding the pen out to him. 

"Er.....I just need an address......." She said, quietly. "And a name......." 

He seemed to snap back into the room with a jolt. 

"Oh! Um......right." Taking the biro from her he scribbled rapidly, then handed it back. 

"Miss Kelly Grogan." She repeated, more to herself than to him. "Fine, I'll get these off by this afternoon. Was there anything else?" 

"No. Thanks."

Then he was gone. 

oOo

A month passed. 

Rainy and cold for the time of year.

At the tinkle of the bell, she left the bridal bouquet she was busy tying and went out into the shop.

He was standing there. 

Shaking off a black umbrella, before folding it and placing it in the bucket by the door. 

Long fingers ruffling through his hair, which was damp in spite of the brolly. It stood on end comically, but he wasn't aware of it, or if he was he simply didn't care. 

"Hello again! Mr Tucker isn't it?" 

"Yeah! You remembered!" He responded with some surprise, and a shy smile, which, in turn, surprised her. 

"How was the reaction to the flowers......fuck you.....if I remember correctly?" Coming round to the side of the counter she stood before him, looking up, her face honest and open, lovely eyes dancing with amusement. 

"Oh, they hit the mark! Well and truly! In fact it's fair to say, I couldn't have chosen better, had I written the message in ten foot high neon letters in Trafalgar Square!" 

"I'm pleased! Is there something I can help you with today?" 

He shuffled from one foot to the other, looking down at his shoes. Stuffing his large hands into his pockets as if he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"Er, yeah. It's my PA's birthday. I want something really nice. Something that says.......that says.....hell, I don't know.......'thank you'......'sorry'.......fuck knows....she puts up with a hell of a lot." 

"Okay. Pink roses are always good. They are for admiration and appreciation." 

He hesitated a moment, as if considering. 

"I don't want her to get the wrong idea.....I mean.....I'm her boss......." 

"I understand. Well, pink carnations mean gratitude, or yellow roses for friendship. The two don't really go together in a bunch though. But I could make a lovely arrangement in a water bag, with yellow roses, and some ivy leaves, which also symbolise continuity in friendship. I have some little pearls, which I can put in the centre of each bud, they would be her birth stone. With some ribbon around, it would look really pretty, I'm sure she'd like that." 

"That sounds like my Sam. Do that then, thanks!" 

He seemed satisfied, but hovered, as if there was something else on his mind. 

What an odd man he was. Gangly. Intense. Rather handsome, she thought. Alert, like a watchful bird. Something about him attracted her. A little sadness about the eyes perhaps, an air of disappointment with the world in general, which gave him a rather resigned and melancholy mien.

"Would you like to choose a card to go with the flowers? You can write it now, and I'll include it with the finished arrangement." 

"Er......yeah, okay." He reached inside his pocket for a pen. 

It took him some time to pick a card he liked. Avoiding fluffy kittens and cute puppies. Discarding the overtly lovey dovey sentimental ones as inappropriate.  
He was also aware that she was watching him, clearly keen to see what he chose. 

In the end he plumped for a picture of a barista coffee cup with a leaf pattern in the froth, and a slice of cake.

Turning, he smiled. 

"She'll get that." He said. "She keeps me in muffins and beverages! Bless her." 

With a confident hand he wrote a message rapidly, signing his name with a flourish. Then handed it over. 

Although she tried not to, she couldn't help reading it. 

_'Sam. Thank you. Don't really have the words. Have a wonderful Birthday. Malcolm. x'_

"That's nice." She remarked, giving up the pretence. "Is this for today?" 

"Yeah.....to the office please......here's the address." 

He scribbled quickly, then stood back. 

Reading the address, he watched her eyebrows raise slightly. 

"Seriously? Number Ten? Blimey!" 

He nodded but made no move to leave. 

"Was there something more?" She blushed slightly under his scrutiny. 

"Um, well......Kirsten isn't it?" 

"Hang on!" She was quite taken aback. "How do you know my name? Have you been checking up on me?" 

It was perfectly true that he had run a security check on her. 

He had to. 

Otherwise he wasn't allowed to ask her. 

But he wasn't going to admit to it. Not right now at any rate. 

"What! Fuck no! It's there......on your invoices........." A look of guilt mixed with contrition crossed his face. 

"Oh!" She paused. "Sorry.......I......."

"Never mind. Don't worry about it. I'll be on my way." Malcolm began to back away towards the door, still apologising, gathering his umbrella and hooking it over his arm.  
The rain outside had abated somewhat and was now only a light drizzle. 

"Shit! Sorry! Look.....Malcolm......." She followed him, one hand held out in a gesture of placation. 

"Right, so I'm Malcolm.......and that's somehow diff.........fucking fuck me......." 

Arms in the air, indicating her exasperation, she huffed loudly. 

"You've just written it on the card, for heavens sake! How could I not notice? I just read it! Damn it!"

Stopping, with one hand on the door handle, he turned back. 

"Sorry!" He said again. 

"God! All we keep doing is apologising to each other! Let's stop already!" She held up both hands in surrender. 

He huffed in frustration. 

"I was only going to ask if you fancied a coffee sometime. I'm not a fucking axe murderer. I work for the Government, okay?  
Doing away with innocent florists isn't my forte, it doesn't go down well with the media.  
It's okay if you'd rather not. It's no big deal. It was just a thought. A stupid one as it happens."

She laughed. 

"I'm sorry. Malcolm, please! It's not stupid, it's rather sweet. I would like that.......thank you!" 

"Really? Right......er......okay then! How about tomorrow......11am? There's a nice little place down the road." 

"Toni's? I know it. Alright. I'll meet you there." 

There was a moment of awkwardness, as they faced each other. Unsure of what to say next.  
Eventually she plunged in regardless. 

"The woman you said 'fuck you' too.......you're clearly over that then?" She attempted to keep it lighthearted, she wasn't sure it was the right thing, but she hoped to make him laugh. 

He did.

His whole face changed with it. Little laughter lines around the eyes. Toothy. A little squeak in his throat, which was most endearing. 

"Kinda. Yeah. She was two timing me....fucking some cunt who works for the press. I was angry for a bit.....till I realised they deserve each other......and that I was kidding myself that it was going anywhere. Story of my fucking life!" 

"I see!" She replied, unable to keep the amusement from her voice. "Probably more information than I required.....but never mind!" 

His face changed again. The smile fading rapidly. 

"Shit! Sorry! Did I say all that out loud? Fuck!" 

Laying a hand gently on his arm, she gave him a shy smile. 

"It doesn't matter Malcolm. Don't start saying sorry again, or we're back where we started! I'll meet you tomorrow. At 11am.......at Toni's.......I'll........."

His mobile began to ring insistently at that moment. 

Taking it out and glancing at it briefly, he said, 

"Listen, I have to take this call. Here's my card.....in case......barring catastrophe, I'll see you tomorrow?" 

He thrust a business card into her hand, opening the shop door simultaneously, and crossing the threshold into the street. 

She clutched it tight, glancing down at it, 

_'Malcolm Tucker. Director of Communications.'_

The address at Downing Street and a phone number. 

Nodding, she gave a little wave. 

The last thing she saw and heard as he hurried away was him answering the phone.

"What the fuck do you want?" 

..........and almost barrelling into another pedestrian whilst avoiding a large puddle on the pavement. Turning briefly to look back, with a gesture of 'fuck my life' as he did so. 

She found herself laughing as she closed the shop door behind her. 

Well, this was going to be interesting!

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
